The City of Dreaming Books (30 page)

But first came a silent trek through the underworld. Colophonius Regenschein was clearly a person of few words. He simply strode on ahead and the most he ever said was ‘This way!’ or ‘Mind the gap!’ or ‘Duck your head!’

We soon came to an area of the catacombs in which there were no more jellyfish lamps, just walls of grey rock lit only by Regenschein’s jellyfish torch. This was all I saw for a long time: the taciturn Bookhunter marching ahead down narrow granite passages and climbing natural stone stairways like some weird flunkey in a bad horror story. The more cramped our surroundings became the more claustrophobic I felt, because they were an all too forcible reminder of the miles-deep layers of rock overhead.

On one occasion our route was barred by a creature with black fur and a scarlet face. It bared its impressive fangs and emitted a no less impressive screech, looking like a hideously deformed ape, but Regenschein made short work of it without even laying aside his torch. He drew his silver axe and dispatched the beast within seconds. When I squeezed past the spot where the fight had taken place I saw some green fluid trickling down the walls.

‘Don’t touch that blood,’ Regenschein warned me. ‘It’s poisonous.’

At last the underground chambers grew bigger. We traversed lofty caverns filled with the sound of dripping water and the echoes of our footsteps. At times the luminous Lavaworms adhering to the walls enabled my taciturn guide to extinguish his torch. Nothing here was reminiscent of the catacombs’ literary associations. For whatever reason, these bookless caves had remained untouched for thousands of years.

We eventually came to a dark cavern full of close-knit stalagmites. Regenschein strode silently on through this forest of stone columns, then came to a sudden halt. He raised his torch and peered up into the darkness as if he had heard something. I listened with bated breath. Did some danger threaten us from above? Before I could say anything, Regenschein produced a big iron key from his armour and inserted it in a stalagmite that jutted high into the blackness overhead. I heard a click followed by a loud metallic rattle, and a monstrous white skull descended out of the gloom. Suspended on stout chains and big enough to have contained Pfistomel Smyke’s house, it was the skull of a giant - presumably a Cyclops, since it had only one eye socket.

‘What’s that?’ I asked in amazement.

‘It’s my home when I’m in the catacombs,’ Regenschein replied. ‘I found it, so it’s mine. It’s full of valuable acquisitions, that’s why I hoist it up there when I’m away. Wait here, I’ll light some candles.’

He climbed in through the eye socket. I remembered that his book had made no mention of where he slept during his long expeditions into the catacombs, but that didn’t surprise me: any Bookhunter would be bound to keep the location of his subterranean pied-à-terre a secret. A few moments later the interior of the skull was illuminated by a warm, flickering glow.

‘Come in!’ called Regenschein.

Hesitantly, I too climbed through the unusual entrance to his abode.

He was just putting his jellyfish torch in a clay vessel filled with nutrient fluid, so that it could recharge itself. The skull’s interior was furnished like a living room. There was a crude wooden table, a chair, a heap of furs to sleep on, two shelves of glass jars and some books. Hanging on the walls was a heterogeneous assortment of weapons and pieces of armour, and among them some objects I couldn’t identify in the dim light, any more than I could identify the contents of the glass jars. Colophonius Regenschein’s living quarters were rather more primitive than I’d imagined, I must confess, but at least there were a few books - extremely valuable ones, I felt sure. The diamond that had once been the Spinxxxx’s heart lay sparkling on the table.

‘Are there giants down here?’ I enquired.

‘No reason why not,’ he replied, sitting down on the chair. ‘I’ve yet to meet one in the flesh, but there are huge caves and huge worms and huge Spinxxxxes in this place, so why not huge giants?’

I would have dearly liked to sit down too, but there was only one chair.

‘Now I can tell you,’ the Bookhunter grunted. ‘My name isn’t Colophonius Regenschein at all.’

‘What?’ I asked, taken aback.

‘I thought you’d be more likely to come with me if I introduced myself as Regenschein. Everyone admires Colophonius Regenschein and no one admires me. My real name is Hunk Hoggno.’

Hunk Hoggno? I didn’t care for the name at all. Had I fallen into another Bookhunter’s trap? My heart beat wildly, but I tried to disguise my trepidation.

He lit another candle on the table and I could now make out almost every detail of the room’s contents. The books on the shelves were adorned with gold and silver clasps. They were immensely valuable, even an amateur like me could see that. They included a copy of Regenschein’s book.

The objects hanging on the walls between the weapons were shrunken heads, and reposing in a basket were some well-scraped skulls and bones. I caught sight of various saws and surgical scalpels. Some of the glass containers on the shelf were filled with liquid blood and pickled organs, others with live worms and maggots. I saw hearts and brains preserved in coloured fluids. Severed hands, too. I recalled my encounter with the Bookhunter in the black market. ‘
Lindworm relics are much in demand here
,’ he’d told me. I shivered. I had ended up in the cave of a professional killer, possibly a maniac.

‘Hunk Hoggno is a pseudonym,’ said my host. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Er, Opt . . . Optimus Yarnspinner,’ I said with an effort. My tongue was cleaving to the roof of my mouth, it had gone so dry.

‘Is that a pseudonym too?’

‘No, it’s my real name.’

‘Well, it sounds like a pseudonym.’

I refrained from contradicting the Bookhunter a second time. An awkward silence fell.

‘Would you care for a little conversation?’ asked Hoggno, so abruptly that I gave a violent start.

‘What?’

‘A little conversation,’ he repeated. ‘I mean, could we talk for a bit? It’s a year since I exchanged a word with anyone.’ His voice had sunk to a whisper. He seemed to be genuinely out of practice where oral communication was concerned.

‘Oh,’ I said, ‘by all means.’ I was prepared to do anything that might break the ice.

‘Good. Er . . . What’s your favourite weapon?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Your favourite weapon. Er, look, I’m a bit rusty where talking’s concerned. Would
you
prefer to ask the questions?’

‘No, no,’ I said hastily, ‘you’re doing fine. My favourite weapon is, er . . . the axe.’ That was a lie, of course. If the truth be told, I don’t care for weapons of any kind.

‘Aha,’ said Hoggno. ‘Is it possible that you’re only saying what I want to hear?’

I thought it better not to reply. I had to weigh my every word like gold dust.

‘I’m sorry,’ Hoggno said. ‘That was rude of me. I’m sure you only meant to be nice. It’s a year since . . . but I mentioned that already.’

Another awkward pause.

‘Er . . .’ said Hoggno.

I leant forward.

‘Yes?’

‘Now I’ve gone and forgotten what I meant to ask next.’

‘Perhaps you’d like me to tell you something about myself,’ I said. ‘Background, profession and so on.’ I was anxious to steer the conversation in another direction by mentioning that I was a writer. That ought to put him in a friendly frame of mind, I thought - after all, he makes his living out of people like me.

‘All right. What’s your profession?’ Hoggno asked.

‘I’m a writer!’ I said triumphantly. ‘From Lindworm Castle! My authorial godfather was Dancelot Wordwright.’

The Bookhunter gave a grunt. ‘I’m not interested in living authors, their books don’t make any money. Not for me, anyway. The only good author is a dead author.’

‘I haven’t published anything yet,’ I said apologetically.

‘Then you’re worth even less. What are you doing down here, unpublished writer?’

‘I was brought here against my will.’

‘That’s the silliest excuse I’ve heard since I chopped off Goldenbeard the Hairsplitter’s legs. He said his compass was broken when I caught him on my territory. At least
he
wasn’t lying. His compass really was broken.’

Hoggno pointed to a compass with a splintered glass attached to his trophy belt.

‘You killed Goldenbeard the Hairsplitter?’

‘I didn’t say that, I said I chopped off his legs.’ Hoggno pointed to two of the jars on the shelf, in each of which a foot was floating.

‘I wasn’t lying,’ I said. ‘I was hijacked and brought here. May I have a drink of water?’ I had spotted a jug of water in a corner.

‘No, water’s scarce down here. Who hijacked you?’

‘Someone named Smyke.’

‘Pfistomel Smyke?’

‘You know him?’

‘Of course, every Bookhunter knows Smyke. A good customer of ours. He’s universally popular.’

I laughed bitterly. ‘Have you read Colophonius Regenschein’s book?’ I asked to change the subject.

‘Naturally,’ said Hoggno. ‘Every Bookhunter has read it - every literate Bookhunter, at least. I don’t like the fellow, but one can learn a lot from him.’ He indicated the diamond on the table. ‘The fact that there’s a diamond inside a Spinxxxx - that one has to find out for oneself.’

‘What do you Bookhunters have against Regenschein?’ I asked, to keep the ball rolling.

Hoggno acted as if he hadn’t heard the question. ‘What are you, actually?’ he asked. ‘A lizard?’

‘A, er, Lindworm,’ I replied. I could sense him appraising me behind his mask.

‘Oh? And how do Lindworms taste?’

I flinched. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I asked how they taste. Lindworms, I mean.’

‘How should I know? I’m not a cannibal.’

‘I am.’

‘What!’

‘I eat anything,’ said Hoggno. ‘And I haven’t tasted any fresh food for ages, just bottled stuff and worms.’ He pointed disdainfully to the jars of liquid blood, guts and squirming maggots. ‘And phosphorescent jellyfish. I’ve eaten so many of the confounded things I’m starting to glow in the dark myself.’

I weighed up my chances of escape. They were poor. ‘I haven’t eaten much lately either,’ I replied, hoping to arouse his sympathy.

‘You don’t look like it. You’re nice and plump.’

‘You can’t eat me!’ I protested. ‘They poisoned me - my entire bloodstream is awash with poison.’

‘So why aren’t you dead?’

‘Well, er . . . because the poison only paralysed me, I suppose.’

‘That’s good. It’s an age since I did any drugs.’ There wasn’t a trace of irony in his voice. He meant exactly what he’d said.

I was fast running out of arguments.

‘I own a valuable manuscript,’ I said. ‘I’ll give it to you if you guide me to the surface.’

‘I’ll simply take the manuscript when I’ve eaten you,’ said Hoggno. ‘It’ll be easier that way.’

Now I really had run out of arguments.

‘That’s enough conversation,’ he said. ‘Now I remember why I never missed it. People only try to confuse you with talk.’ He stood up and took an axe from the wall, then ran his mailed thumb along the blade with a high-pitched sound like a knife being sharpened.

‘I’ll make it short and sweet,’ he promised. ‘Well, I don’t know about sweet, but short - that I guarantee you. I’m not a sick bastard like Rongkong Koma. I kill to survive, not just for kicks. I shall process every last bit of you. I’ll eat your flesh and pickle your internal organs. Your hands I’ll preserve and sell to some dumb tourist. I’ll shrink your head and sell it to an Ugglian antique shop. Take off your clothes so they don’t get bloodstained!’

I was sweating. How could I gain some time? Resistance would be futile. He was an experienced warrior, armed and in armour.

‘May I at least have a drink before you kill me?’ I entreated.

Hoggno thought this over. ‘No,’ he said, ‘you’ll be dead in no time. It’d be a waste.’

A sudden gust of wind came wafting through the skull. The candles flickered, the shadows on the walls danced. Hoggno turned towards the entrance and gave an exclamation of surprise.

‘That’s . . .’ he said, and broke off in mid sentence. He raised the axe.

The candles went out, the darkness was total except for some little red specks: the tips of the smouldering wicks. I heard something rustle in the gloom like the pages of a big book fluttering in the wind. Then came a savage snarl. Hoggno uttered an oath. His axe whistled through the air. I ducked and went into a crouch. A clatter, a rending sound, another rustle of paper, then silence.

I went on crouching in the darkness for a while, quaking with fear, my heart beating wildly. At length I groped my way to the table, found the matches and lit a candle with trembling fingers. I hardly dared look round.

Hunk Hoggno was lying on the floor - in two pieces. His head had been cut off and placed beside his body complete with helmet. His left hand was holding a few shreds of bloodstained paper. I wasn’t cold-blooded enough to remove the helmet and see what species he belonged to. I flopped down on the chair, gasping with horror.

It took me quite a while to regain some of my composure and awaken from a kind of trance. I picked up the jug of water and drained it, took a knife from the wall and stowed it in one of the pockets of my cloak, and removed the jellyfish torch from its clay vessel. Then I left that ghastly place.